All the Possibilities
by KateToast
Summary: Time is irrelevant, here. Since that is true, absolute fact – and Jack has been known to be quite the factual sort of man – it is like he lives out a thousand, a million, an infinite number of lives. All with her. Jack/Kate, after "The End".


**A/N:** After "The End", some possibilities.

**XXX**

Time is irrelevant, here.

Since that is true, absolute fact – and Jack has been known to be quite the factual sort of man – it is like he lives out a thousand, a million, an infinite number of lives.

All with her.

Sometimes they are engaged, planning their dream wedding, inviting friends and family and celebrating the pending nuptials nonstop. He asks her in so many ways, in so many places, and she accepts every single time. He doesn't _need_ to ask, they both already know the answer, but he does all the same. (He likes the way _yes_ sounds coming from her lips.)

Sometimes they are already married, living in the suburbs, in the city, on an island, enjoying wedded bliss. They are in a never-ending honeymoon period full of excitement and happiness and joy, loud nights out with friends and quiet nights in with wine. They live in different types of homes: apartments, houses, lofts, cottages. They make each one a special place, every occurrence varying slightly from the last. They lay in bed all day, they eat when they are hungry, they decorate the space, they tease and laugh and love. (He doesn't know how but her smile gets brighter each time.)

Sometimes they drift from one another. He gets caught up in something else, she pursues another thing. But that _knowledge_ they both have is still there, always with them, and so when he is done with his something else and she has finished her other thing they reconnect, and it is like finding each other all over again, but even better. Everything is like new, and yet old and familiar at the same time. There are no explanations needed, no apologies made, no regrets. (She lights up when she sees him once more in a way that casts everything surrounding in darkness.)

Sometimes they are insatiable. He can't get enough of her, thinks of those years they danced around each other, held back, limited their passion for the sake of other ventures, other tasks that _had_ to be done, and it makes him want her even more. She feels the same - they are connected on a level that does not exist anywhere else, he knows – and sometimes she just can't wait, has to have him right at that moment, wherever they are, and it is always somehow just as transcendent as the last time. She claws at his back, wraps her legs around his hips, he buries his face in her thick, curly hair, kisses her anywhere he can, and when it's over they lie in a pile of limbs until they're ready for more. (The way she moans his name is like coming home.)

Sometimes they just talk. Who knows for how long, since time is not important - what is important are the words, the feelings expressed, the sharing of experiences. He tells her of his life, from beginning to end and beyond, as many times as he wants. She explains her story as well, and each chapter that makes up that story is thoroughly detailed. They have no secrets, no hidden reservations, no covered-up mistakes. Everything is laid out, listened to, accepted, loved. (He wants to know everything about her, surely already does, and hearing it all from her mouth somehow makes it _more_.)

Sometimes there are tears. She repeats to him over and over again, touching his face, his chest, his arms, clutching his back, his middle, wherever she can reach, _I missed you so much, I love you, I missed you so _much, _Jack,_ and he pulls her as close as he can, closer than he could have ever managed physically _or_ emotionally in the _before_, and he soothes her quietly, _I know, I know Kate, I love you, I _love_ you_. There are moments in the night when they're wrapped up in each other and he just cries, freely and unashamed, not from regret or loss, but from relief, because he has her. (He finally, completely _has_ her.)

Sometimes things seem to be moving too quickly, and that old knee-jerk reaction from his earlier life urges him to slow down, relish the moments, make every second count. Those are the instances when he feels the need to study her, to memorize and re-memorize every curve, every feature, every freckle, every feeling she gives him. She lets him: she'll sit there, or lie there, or stand there, for as long as he needs, and allow him this whim, allow herself to be worshipped by a man she worships herself. He makes sure to touch each spot, to kiss each inch, to appreciate each wave of elation she provides by just being _her_. (He worries he won't have the proper amount of time he requires to absolutely _love_ her the way he wants to.)

Then he remembers something, and it makes him smile: (he has all the time in the world).

**XXX**


End file.
